


The Importance of Vaccinating Your Lycanthrope

by Stoney



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek Hale Can Have Nice Things, Derek is a giant baby, Fluff, Future Fic, Human Derek Hale, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Stiles is a nice thing, Stiles is amused by this, vaccinations are important
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-22
Updated: 2014-08-22
Packaged: 2018-02-14 04:58:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2178810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stoney/pseuds/Stoney
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Herd immunity only works if the herd stays vaccinated, <i>Derek</i>. Well, it's not like Derek had ever expected that he'd need an MMR, etc. <i>Stiles</i>. Good thing Stiles is <i>awesome</i> at sick beds. Yes he is, too, <i>Derek</i>.</p><p>In which possibly temporary human!Derek believes himself to be cursed, but nah, that's just a pox, brah. No it <i>isn't</i> the same thing. (Just some gentle hurt-comfort. Unbeta'd, and inspiration from this <a href="http://dizzzylu.tumblr.com/post/95079210096">tumblr post</a>.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Importance of Vaccinating Your Lycanthrope

“Derek? Open up, come on. I know you're home because your creepy mom-car is parked out front.” Ever since Braeden left town a few months ago, Derek had been hiding in his loft, unsure of where he fit with the pack as a non-werewolf. Stiles could totally identify with that, but Derek hadn't been around in a few weeks to benefit from all of Stiles' sideline experience. It had gotten to the point where Stiles was starting to worry that maybe Derek had skipped town again, which led him here.

The car _was_ parked out front, so surely Derek was still here? Stiles pounded on the door with the side of his fist again, just to make sure.

“ _Go away_.”

Definitely Derek, but whoa. His voice was cracked and croaky; he sounded like he was dying. Again. 

“Shit,” Stiles muttered, pulling out his copy of his dad's master key—and see, Dad, here was a time when it was clearly a good thing that he'd made it—and forcing his way into Derek's loft.

“Derek?”

A weak “goddammit, Stiles...” came from the rumpled bed across the room.

That lazy jackass... “What the hell, man? It's like four in the afternoon.” Stiles dropped his keys and kicked off his shoes. “Why are you still in— _Oh my god what is wrong with you_.”

Derek pulled his blanket up over his face. “I'm cursed. Poisoned. I don't know. Just go away!”

“Nuh uh,” Stiles said, sinking onto the mattress near Derek's hip. He was prepared to go against werewolf muscle power when he began pulling the covers off Derek, but Derek apparently had the strength of a convalescent kitten, and Stiles went flying backwards with a startled yelp before sitting back up to see what was going on. “Holy...” 

Derek was naked, save for some worn out looking boxer briefs, but every visible square inch of his body was covered in spots. They were angry red, itchy-looking, and, well, _everywhere_. “Dude. You...you say you were cursed?”

With his eyes screwed up in pain, Derek moaned softly—a less generous friend would have called it a whimper. Wincing, he tried to turn over, but couldn't seem to manage it. Stiles could see from the brief glance he got that the spots were even worse on Derek's back.

“Can you remember who cursed you?” Stiles asked. “What they said?” His hand hovered over Derek's chest where he could see spots through Derek's chest hair that were starting to scab over from where they'd been scratched mercilessly. “Or... _why_?”

Derek started scratching at his belly, so Stiles knocked his hand away. It could be infectious like impetigo.

“No one...” Derek sighed, prying one eye open. It was bloodshot and filled with misery. “No. About two weeks ago at the store some toddler coughed into my mouth—” Stiles reared back in disgust. “—and his mom yelled at me for upsetting her kid. These showed up a few days ago. Do you...” Derek smacked his lips and tried to scratch again, but was unable to break Stiles' strong hold on his wrists. “Do you think she could have been a witch?”

“Pretty sure toddlers can't be witches, dude. Hogwarts letters don't go out until you're eleven.”

Derek gave him a baleful look, impressive with just one eye.

Stiles got back to what was important. “Her kid—and excuse me while I dry heave—it coughed into your _mouth_? How? How did a small child get that high up?”

“I...” Derek turned away and muttered, “I may have been trying to get her to smile while squatting down at her eye level.”

“Oh my god.” Stiles said, beaming. “That's the cutest thing ever. Completely and utterly ruined by her hacking a lung into your _mouth_ , oh my _god_ , that just gets worse every time we say it. New rule,” he said, folding Derek's arms over his chest and resting a hand on top to keep them there. “We stop mentioning that.”

Stiles took a deep breath and looked Derek over. Clammy, spotty, weak... He put the palm of his free hand to Derek's head, which was burning up. “Man, you are so sick.”

“Being nice to children isn't _sick_ , Stiles.” Derek gruffed.

“Oh my _god_. Sick Derek is now my new favorite Derek.” Stiles patted Derek's hands. Sick Derek also didn't mind Stiles pawing at him, apparently. “No, you're sick. Ill. Under the weather. In need of medical attention, or at the very least, First Aid.” He pressed up under Derek's jaw—ookay, that beard was surprisingly soft, huh, there was _that_ mystery solved—and didn't feel any hard lumps or anything, nor did it look swollen. He pulled out his phone and opened the WebMD app, closing the open page on cholesterol and pulling up skin rashes. “Not measles, then. Head hurt?”

Derek nodded, frowning in sadness. 

Stiles mirrored his frown. “Body ache?”

Derek made a soft noise that sounded hurt.

“Sore throat?”

Derek coughed and whined.

“Well,” Stiles said, sighing and slipping his phone into his pocket then resting the back of his hand to Derek's forehead, “I have to say, Big Guy, when you get sick, you do it right. Chickenpox.”

“Pox? I have a—” Derek tried to sit up, but fell back to the mattress with a sad little noise.

“Being human sucks, huh?”

“Totally.” Derek turned his head as much as he could, trying to bury his face into his sweaty pillow.

“Okay, this is gross. You're officially gross.” Stiles stood and looked over Derek, who was writhing pathetically, which was to say barely moving but making the attempt, and moaning softly. Poor guy. “Can you manage for a few minutes?”

“What.”

“Good to see that being at death's door hasn't dampened your charm,” Stiles said, grinning. “Just... continuing laying here in your filth and misery, and I'll be right back.”

It was a sign of how sick Derek was that he didn't argue.

*

“All righty!” Stiles dropped his bags at the foot of Derek's bed and rubbed his hands together. “Ibuprofen for your aches and widdle pains.” Derek's scowls were almost adorable at this point. “Gatorade—I got you blue and orange flavor, natch—for dehydration issues, some other things—” Mostly some comics and sundries for Stiles to pass the time. “—and the _coup de grâce_...” 

He rifled through one bag and pulled out a pack of cotton balls and a largish bottle. “Calamine lotion.”

Derek stared up at him, mouth slightly parted. After a moment, he said, “It's pink.”

“Yep.”

“What the hell does it do?”

“Gives me a reason to laugh. Now, first things first, let's get you up and clean.” Stiles leaned down and draped Derek's arm over his shoulder and hoisted him to his feet.

“Cut it out. Just leave me here,” Derek moaned, trying to pull away.

“Oh my god, you are the worst patient.” Stiles did _not_ let him go, because Stiles was not the abandoning type, except for those times he threatened to abandon his friends, but that was because it was a life-or-death situation—Stiles' life in particular—and not because they were newly human, or human-like or whatever they were calling what Derek was now. The point was that Stiles could be helpful, especially when it meant he would have this amazing story to hold over Derek's head. 

And, well, he sort of liked being able to take care of people. It was important, helping someone when they were sick, just being there for them. He would put good money down on Derek not having had many people taking care of him since his family died. Well, that just made his heart ache to think about. All the more reason why he needed to meddle. Help. Whatever.

“I promise that you will feel better, now come on.” He shuttled Derek into the bathroom, dropping him down on the closed toilet while turning on the bath. “Just sit here and fester; I'll be right back.”

He grabbed a packet from his purchases, snapping it to shake the contents all to one side before ripping it open and dumping it all into the bath.

“What.”

Stiles shook his head, rubbing his hand roughly over his face. “We have _got_ to work on your vocabulary, dude.”

“My vocabulary is fine,” Derek said before doubling over, coughing.

“Right, sorry. Forgot about the sore throat.” Stiles pulled Derek back up to his feet. “Colloidal oatmeal, and it's going to make you stop itching.”

Derek looked at him with the most pathetic, desperate need on his face. Stiles couldn't help but make sympathetic noises before herding him towards the tub.

“Just...get those off,” Stiles said, motioning towards Derek's briefs, “and get in. I promise I won't look.”

“That looks disgusting,” Derek said.

Rolling his eyes, Stiles replied, “Yeah, I know. It's foamy and beige, and resembles cat puke, sort of. But it's really good for you, so clam up and get in.”

He turned away slightly, letting Derek use his shoulder for balance while stripping. He gripped Derek's forearm and helped him into the tub doing his best not to ogle the poor guy. Only ogle the healthy, that was a Stilinski motto. Well, they didn't have that cross stitched on a pillow, but it seemed like it should be a motto, regardless. The oatmeal bath mix clouded the water, so hopefully Derek appreciated the privacy he was being afforded. 

“Oh, almost forgot!” Stiles grinned, pulled something out of his back pocket and dropped it in the tub where it made a little splash. Derek picked up the rubber duck and snorted. “In case you get lonely, I brought you a bath buddy.”

To his utter delight, Derek didn't throw it at Stiles' head, but held onto it while sinking lower into the tub. 

“Okay,” Stiles said in a cheery voice. “I'll be right outside. You just soak for a while and get rid of the itchies.”

He turned to the door and heard Derek said softly, “Can I please have some of that Gatorade?”

Stiles whipped around. Please? Derek asking for help and saying _please_? He was more sick than Stiles had realized. Derek _never_ showed him any sign of vulnerability. This was huge. He knew enough about Derek not to gloat or preen or something that would ruin this. Hell, Derek probably appreciated someone making an effort towards him.

Nodding, he replied, “Yeah, buddy, sure. You want blue or orange?”

Derek smiled to himself and sank down into the giant tub, still holding the duck while reaching up with his toes to shut off the tap. “You pick. I don't care.”

“And a mix of flavors it is,” Stiles said with a wink. “Be back in a minute.”

“Thank you.”

Stiles stood there with his hand on the knob watching Derek pat the water's surface, trying not to break the surface tension. Something in his chest twisted up at the sight of Derek, former Alpha and king intimidator of teens, presently weakened, almost child-like with how relaxed he looked in the moment, and the biggest part of all of this was that Derek was grateful. Grateful for something _Stiles_ had done for him. And was letting Stiles know. The walls between them had been breaking down to afford them some form of friendship over the past several months, but this felt like a quantum leap forward in the best of ways.

He couldn't deal with the flurry of emotions all of this was bringing on, how freaking _proud_ he felt to be able to put that look on Derek's face after all they'd been through, after all the fighting and bitching, so instead he shook his head to clear it and replied, “Uh, yeah, dude. No problem. Be right back. You sit tight.”

Yeah, people who didn't how how freaking great it could feel to just help someone when they needed it were totally missing out. He wondered if Derek had any crazy sippy straws hidden anywhere. 

*

“All right,” Stiles said, “got your sheets changed, you've had two bottles of Gatorade, are you still itchy?”

Derek, eyes closed and head back against the tub with a cool compress on his forehead, smiled softly and shook his head a little.

“See? That oatmeal stuff is sort of gross, but it totally works. You need to rinse off—don't rub or anything—and then hop out.” Without thinking, he reached into the tub to pull the stopper, his forearm brushing against Derek's hairy shin. Stiles froze in place, worried he was going to get his head ripped off, but Derek made a rumbly sort of noise and didn't move. After a moment of letting the water drain out, Stiles turned the tap back on and dropped a plastic cup in the water. “Come on, hurry up. Just holler when you're ready to get out if you need any help.”

Derek squinched his eyes even more tightly shut and moaned. “I don't want to move. If I'm not soaking in it, it's going to start itching again. I'm just going to stay here.”

“You'll prune up if you stay in there.” Stiles noticed how much more of Derek's shins he could see, the black, wiry hair plastered to the skin, and yep, those were visible nipples through Derek's chest hair, dark and dusky from the warm water. Somehow seeing them in the bath made it something more than all the times Derek had been shirtless around him. He cleared his throat and added, “The water's dropping fast, and I need to afford you _some_ level of dignity. I'm a gentleman, dude.”

Derek scoffed, but shifted forward, filling up the cup and dumping it over himself petulantly as Stiles hunted around for a towel. He turned back and was transfixed by the sight of water sluicing over Derek's bare skin and how mesmerizing the play of muscle in Derek's arms and shoulders were. The water slurping down the drain snapped him out of his reverie. What the hell was wrong with him, perving on a sick friend?

As he helped Derek climb out and get a towel around him—with eyes averted because there was no way he was going to be able to handle a soft and sweet Derek Hale fully naked with visible pubes and dick within eyesight—Derek asked, “Why are you being so nice to me?”

“Well, that's gratitude for you,” Stiles said, heart sinking. He kicked Derek's dirty britches to the corner so Derek didn't accidentally step on them and slip.

“No,” Derek said, sighing and holding the towel at his waist. “I appreciate your help, really. I just don't know why you _would_.”

Stiles stood there, mouth gaping. “Why I _would_? Derek, you fucking matter." He ran a hand through his hair, feeling terrible on Derek's behalf. "Have ever even had a vaccination?”

Derek shook his head no, looking down uncomfortably.

“You do get that people used to die from this stuff, right? And where those hippie anti-vaxxers live they're starting to die from this shit again?” Stiles moved behind Derek to gently push him out of the bathroom and towards his newly-made up bed. “A gang of four year olds could take you out with one sneeze. I don't want you to _die_ , Derek.”

Derek simply shook his head in disbelief—what the hell, how was this possible that Derek didn't think anyone wanted him to be okay?—and pulled up a clean pair of briefs that Stiles had left out for him under his towel, which he then dropped to the floor, sitting down on the edge of the bed with his hands between his knees.

“Plus, if you get this as an adult,” Stiles said, “it can lead to shingles. That affects your...” He waved at Derek's crotch. “You know. It can lead to impotence, dude.”

Derek looked up, horrified.

Backtracking quickly, Stiles said, “But I'm sure your wolfy-manhood will be totally fine. No, uh, no worries on... the whole. You know. Flag pole.” He made a fist and slapped the side of his forearm as a show of virility. Instead of being calmed by that, Derek started chewing on his lip, looking away. Oh, shit. Right. No more wolfy-manhood, just regular manhood. Was there a difference? This wasn't the time to ask.

…was it?

No, definitely not. Stiles sighed, grabbed the bottle of calamine lotion and package of cotton balls, and said, “Derek. I got here in time, you don't have scales or anything, you're going to be fine. I got this.” 

Derek smiled forlornly and looked off to the side.

“Quit being a sad face for like, two seconds so I can make you all pretty.” Stiles unscrewed the lid and held a cotton ball over the opening to moisten it.

Derek leaned back just slightly out of reach. “Are you sure that stuff is for Chickenpox?”

Stiles looked at the bottle in his hand momentarily and shrugged. “Pretty sure?”

“You don't _know_?” Derek asked, beginning to sound panicked.

“Dude. I'm not a _doctor_.” As Derek began backing away on his hands and feet on the mattress, Stiles reached out and grabbed at his wrist, his mouth working open and shut a few times before he pushed on. “Look. My... my mom swore by this stuff, all right? She used it on me; I remember it helping a lot.”

Derek went still when Stiles mentioned his mom. “She used this on you when you had it?”

Stiles nodded, keeping Derek's intense eye contact. Shit, he had to remember that Derek had never been sick like this before. “It's just anti-itch lotion, not wolfsbane, okay?”

Getting to his feet with a tiny wobble, Derek said, “Okay,” and held out an arm. 

Ha, Stiles' powers of persuasion were now legendary. ...in his own mind. He grinned and began patting the lotion on every little red bump he could find, tossing the used cotton balls into one of the empty grocery sacks. After getting the last one on the top of Derek's foot—and after Derek had put both hands on Stiles' shoulders to keep from falling over—Stiles started blowing on the marks to dry them faster so Derek could lay down. Somewhere near the tops of Derek's thighs where Derek had an itchy patch of them high and near the crease of his thigh and hip, Derek made a strangled sort of noise. Stiles paused, looking up, and asked, “You okay? Hurting?”

Derek's eyes were wild, but he shook his head no.

“You don't have to be brave, you know,” Stiles said, standing up. “If you hurt, you need to tell me.”

“I don't hurt, Stiles. You were just...” Derek closed his eyes and shook his head. “Never mind.”

“Well, let's get you tucked all in. I even brought you a bedtime story, one I think you could identify with in your present state,” Stiles said, reaching behind him to pull a comic book out of one of his bags. “The Walking Dead, volume 17.”

Derek groaned and flopped back onto the bed. Stiles noted with glee that he had fallen to the far side, leaving plenty of room for a bedtime buddy to read him stories.

Opening one eye and frowning, Derek asked, “You're not going to do voices, are you?”

“Oh dear lord, I hadn't even _thought_ of that!” Stiles said, his face almost splitting with a gleeful smile. “I'm totally doing voices now.”

Derek groaned, but Stiles noticed that he didn't complain once. In fact, he leaned closer as Stiles continued to read. Another point scored for Stilinski.

*

“What? What's...” Derek said, his voice thick with sleep as he tried to tug his arm out of Stiles' grip.

Stiles had the bedside lamp on so he could see. He bit off the end of duct tape and finished wrapping it tightly around the wrist of a pair of driving gloves he'd found in one of Derek's drawers and hastily shoved over Derek's restless hands, effectively making the wrist too tight to be able to be pulled off.

“Dude, you are driving me nuts with the scratching. You're going to undo all of my hard work.” He grabbed a long sleeved shirt from the foot of the bed. “Get your arms up. You're wearing this. At least this way if you rub at yourself with those gloves, you'll have a few layers to buffer the scratching. Welcome to the human dangers of scarring, buddy. Don't want you to ruin that pretty face and go Ray Liotta on us.”

Derek didn't seem to be able to move, so Stiles pulled him up to sitting like a ragdoll, fighting, twisting, and grunting as he worked the shirt over Derek's lax form. “A little help would be nice!” he puffed out. Derek slumped back against the headboard, eyes closed and mouth slightly open.

“Derek?” Stiles reached out and checked Derek's forehead. “Shit, you're burning up.” 

Stiles untangled himself from the duvet, duct tape and book, tripping onto the floor and into the bathroom in his rush to make a cold compress with a washcloth. Stumbling back into the space of the loft that Derek called his bedroom, Stiles noticed that it was about three in the morning. Well, his dad was on late nights, so it shouldn't be a problem that he crashed here. It wasn't like he would leave even if his dad did get mad. 

Derek made a pathetic noise and started coughing. Shit, right. Stiles rushed back to the fridge to grab a fresh bottle of Gatorade, sat back on the bed to work Derek into sitting up enough to be able to drink. Derek turned his face away from the press of the bottle to his lips, though.

“Come on, man, just a little bit.”

“Hate this...” Derek mumbled, trying to clutch Stiles' shirt with his bandaged and gloved hand while trying to drink. 

“I know you do, buddy.” Stiles kept forcing the liquid down him until deeming it to be enough for the time being. “Come on, let's get you back to sleep so you can knock this fever down, okay?”

When Stiles draped the cold compress on his forehead, pressing it down gently and brushing Derek's sweaty hair off his forehead, Derek made a pleased sort of noise. Satisfied for the time being, Stiles grabbed a pillow off the bed to go sprawl on the sofa, but Derek made a noise of distress, reaching out ineffectually for him.

“Don't go home.”

Stiles smiled softly, patting Derek's shoulder. “I'm just going to the sofa.”

“You don't have to,” Derek muttered, batting weakly at Stiles' arm with his bound hands before letting it drop back down to his chest. He fussed and fidgeted as if to get more comfortable, but only succeeded in dislodging the compress.

Sighing, Stiles picked up it, waited for Derek to get situated, then put it back. 

“Stiles,” Derek breathed, “don't go.”

His heart gave a pained thump. “Okay, buddy, I'm staying.”

“Here,” Derek said, his voice growing quieter as he began slipping back into sleep.

“Right here, wouldn't want to be anywhere else,” Stiles said with fondness, raking Derek's hair back off his forehead again. 

“'Kay. You finally made—” Derek gave a face cracking yawn, then settled into a weak grin. “—yourself useful.”

“Such a jerk, oh my god.” Stiles watched as Derek's breathing evened out, the little lines of pain at the edges of Derek's eyes evening out as time passed. He changed out Derek's compress and settled back against the headboard.

He could see by the pale moonlight that Derek's shirt had ridden up, exposing his belly, and that Derek had rubbed off some of his medicinal lotion on the spots there. With Derek totally asleep again, it was easy to reapply, and even easier with a fresh cotton ball loaded up with the pink liquid to write out S-T-I-L-E-S across Derek's belly, framing the soft, thick line of hair below Derek's navel with the I and the L. Chuckling, he softly blew across the lotion to get it to dry. Derek's gloved hand dropped onto his shoulder, startling him, but when Stiles looked up, Derek was still asleep, mouth open as he breathed softly.

Stiles moved Derek's hand with a little pat, smiling to himself when Derek turned slightly in his sleep towards him. Satisfied for the time being, he laid down next to Derek on the bed, hands crossed at his chest, and stared up into the darkness. It was nice to be needed. Wanted, even. Even better was _who_ wanted him just then. Just maybe this was a bigger step forward with them both than Stiles had realized.

He laid there smiling to himself in the silence, listening to Derek breathing deeply, settling back into sleep, as well.

*

Stiles felt a tickling sensation across his forehead and jerked up to sitting, suddenly awake. “Huh? Whazzat?” 

Derek was about two centimeters away from his face, looking shocked, his eyes wide and mouth open in an O of surprise. He snapped it closed and shook his head at Stiles. “Nothing. Good morning. Well, afternoon.”

Stiles flopped back down with a groan, eyes closed. Derek had woken him up almost every hour on the dot, moaning and trying to scratch himself, until about seven a.m. when his fever finally broke and he fell deeply asleep. Smacking his lips, Stiles grimaced, reaching up and pulling a cotton ball that was stuck to the corner of his mouth with tacky lotion. “Gross.”

He stretched out, cataloging his sore shoulders from sleeping weird and how his feet were tangled up in the bedding. “You doing okay? Still hurting?”

“No, I'm much better. Um, thanks.” Derek glanced up to make brief eye contact, then looked back down at his lap, smirking. He sobered quickly, however, and said, “I really appreciate you sticking around.”

Stiles closed his eyes—Derek's bed was really comfortable when he let himself stretch out normally—and rubbed at his belly. “No problem, man. You needed help.”

“Yeah, but—” Derek gave Stiles' shin a squeeze, leaving his hand there, something that sent butterflies racing in Stiles' stomach. “That was more than just help. Thank you, Stiles.”

Stiles looked at him, could see the worry of rejection in Derek's gaze, which what? Why would Derek ever think he'd be rejected by Stiles? Well, okay there was the whole refusal to cutting off arms, arguing about Derek quietly hiding in his room, and probably a million other times when Stiles had been a jerk, but that was before they'd come to an understanding over the recent past. That was before their friends had started dying, when they—him, Scott, Lydia and Derek—had needed to band together and really be there for one another.

They were friends now. Derek should know that Stiles had his back. Sure, he'd love his front, but Derek had never given any indication he'd be into that, so. Yeah. Stiles had his back.

“Hey,” he said softly, knocking his leg into Derek's side. “Any time.”

Derek looked into his eyes, smiling, then looked away quickly, schooling his face into something more neutral. He coughed and pushed to standing. No wobble, no visible weakness. Good.

“You need to get home? Check in with your dad or anything?” Derek asked, gathering up garbage and walking off to the kitchen.

Stiles stood, stretched with a bone popping crack, and headed towards the bathroom. “I should let him know where I am. Maybe call Melissa and make sure you're in the clear, or whatever. Hey, there's Neosporin in one of those bags; you should put that on your things after you get a shower if they don't itch anymore. I'm just gonna...” He thumbed over his shoulder towards the bathroom and Derek nodded, biting his lip. Okay, dude, it was just a trip to piss. That didn't warrant a blush, Stiles didn't think.

He stood over the commode, yawning and moaning with the pleasure of emptying his bladder, looking around at the collateral damage in the bathroom. That tub was going to need to be scrubbed and not by Stiles. Smirking, he caught sight of himself in the mirror to the right and did a double take.

“What the...” He shook off, flushed the toilet, and moved in front of the glass. On his forehead in neat, pink Copperplate was D-E-R-E-K. Well, at least he hadn't written DICK. Or drawn one. “Touche,” he mumbled. “ _El estudiante_ becomes _el maestro_.”

“That's what you get!” came a pleased yell from the kitchen. “ _Ahora mando yo_.”

Wait, how the hell... He popped his head out of the bathroom and gaped at Derek. “One, you are not the master of me. Two, how did you hear that?”

Derek went still, the water running in the sink and soap on his hands. “I...I just could?”

Stiles groped unseeing behind him, got a solid something in his hand and flung it as hard as he could at Derek, who caught it without looking. Well, that wasn't enough proof as Derek had plenty of practice to develop fast reflexes.

“Dude, shut the water off and do something wolfy.”

Derek rolled his eyes but shut the water off, wiping his hands on the towel. “Wolfy?”

Stiles waved a hand in the air. “I don't know, flash your eyes!”

Derek's nostril flared with a frustrated exhalation, but he visibly steeled himself. He looked up at Stiles, and yep, his eyes flashed. Yellow.

Stiles pumped his fist in the air with a cheerful, “Yes! Ha! You got your mojo back, dude!”

Derek was doing everything he could not to grin, but that was just stupid. 

“That's stupid, Derek, be happy! You've gotten your wolf back! Wait, how did you get your wolf back?”

Derek shrugged, but allowed himself to smile. “No clue. I should probably go see Deaton. See if he knows anything.”

Scoffing, Stiles replied, “Good luck with that.”

Derek continued to look at him, eyebrows raised until Stiles shook his head. “Oh, now.” Derek nodded, fondly exasperated, Stiles chose to believe. “Okay. I'll head out. Call me later, check in, that stuff, okay?”

Derek's cheeks were a little pink, and there went another flurry of butterflies in Stiles' gut, but Derek didn't say anything cutting or snarky, just nodded and said softly, “Yeah, okay.”

Stiles slipped his shoes back on and shoved his keys in his front pocket. When he made to clean up and gather his other things, Derek stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Leave it.” He was looking down at Stiles' chest when he asked, “Maybe you could come back later and we could watch the Walking Dead? I'm pretty behind on the last season.”

If Derek had his wolf senses back, then he could definitely hear how that made Stiles' heart rate pick up. Clearly it wasn't bothering him, seeing as he was still holding Stiles' arm.

“Yeah. Sure. Um...” Stiles rubbed at the top of his head with his free hand, looking down at his feet and grinning. “See you later?”

Derek rolled his eyes and turned Stiles around, gently pushing him to the door. Before Stiles crossed the threshold, he gave Stiles' shoulders a squeeze, pulled him in close and said directly into his ear, “Thank you, Stiles. See you soon.”

Stiles barely remembered taking the elevator or driving home, he was grinning and chuckling to himself, wondering what the hell was going on but not really worried to find out. He walked into the house to find his father sitting in his easy chair, looking over some paperwork. He stared at Stiles for a moment, then shook his head going back to his things.

“So. Finally got him to put a ring on it?” 

Stiles looked up, confused. 

His dad winced, asking, “Is that what y'all are still calling it?”

“I...what?”

His dad laughed and pointed towards the downstairs half-bath. “Take a look.”

He switched on the light and snorted when he saw that he'd failed to wipe off the pink letters on his forehead.

Well, canines liked to mark their territory, right? Better that than getting peed on. He paused mid-scrub to smile, remembering that Derek, who had been so lost and confused without the comfort of being a werewolf, without the connection to his family and past, seemed to be getting his supernatural mojo back. And because of him.

If Derek wanted to make Stiles a part of his territory, Stiles was totally down with that. He looked at his reflection, at his grin and especially at the half rubbed-off letters on his forehead. Derek wanted to mark his territory? Better leave the letters there, then. 

~end~

**Author's Note:**

> ([redacted] I cannot control where my fanworks' metadata is placed, even though I wish it to remain here. If I had a choice, my fanworks would remain in the realm of fandom in which I place it, aka non-corporate owned review sites such as GR. Personal review/rec lists are not to be considered the same thing and are something with which I have no issue.)


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